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Morgan laughed. “The two fight all the time.”
“I think, for those two, arguing might be flirting.”
“He’s not fond of the Morgans.”
“Don’t be so sure.” This was not the conversation he’d intended. He shifted to offense. “I was comparing your space here to your home.”
A brow arched as hesitancy flashed in her gaze. “And what do you see?”
Good, they were now both uncomfortable. “Can you say control issues?”
That made her laugh. “Did you miss the part where I said I’m a cop?”
“The trait comes with the job. The question is where did it come from? We all had it before the first day on the job.”
“Where did it come from in you?”
Nice deflection. “Genetics, I guess. A legendary homicide detective raised the Morgan kids. We all have our share of issues.”
“Ah.”
“Now, your turn. What’s your excuse?”
A slight tension tugged at the edges of her lips. “Who knows?”
“No, I’m not letting you dodge this so easily.”
“Really.”
“Want my theory?”
She turned back to her sketchpad and opened it. She began to draw. “Sounds like I’m going to get it.”
“It was definitely from your past. Something that instilled a need to control.”
Her pencil stilled for a beat before moving again. “Maybe it was genetics in my case as well.”
“I don’t think so.” He dropped the line in the water wondering if she’d take the bait.
She swam right past it as if it would take more to get her to open up. Fine. He’d drop it for now. “Sorry, Detective, I didn’t sign on for analysis.”
And with that, the door slammed shut. However, he wasn’t worried. He’d find a way to open that door again soon. “So the picture will be ready tomorrow?”
“Likely. The day after at the latest. Like I said, the final details always take more time than I figured.”
“What kind of details?”
“Subtleties. The quirk of a mouth, the spark in the eyes. There’s always something I miss until the very end.”
What was he missing about her? A lot. In time he’d figure her out. He figured everyone out eventually. The only worry with her was time. Would she be around long enough to decipher. That shouldn’t matter, but it did. “You’ll call me when you’re finished.”
“You’ll be the first.”
“Great.”
“What’s your dog’s name?”
“Tracker.”
“So Tracker’s a retired canine. Belgian shepherd?”
“Yeah. Good eye.”
She rose, like yesterday, but made no move to pet the dog. She knew, though Tracker was retired, he considered himself a working dog. She seemed to understand that not petting Tracker was a sign of respect. “How old is he?”
“Five.”
“You two were shot at the same time.”
Her certainty made him wonder again if she’d talked to Georgia. “Yeah.”
“It’s a hell of a business, being a cop.”
“I’ve often questioned my sanity.” But I didn’t quit.
She glanced back at her drawing as if reading his thoughts. “So it’s just you and Georgia?”
“No. Older brother, Deke Morgan, heads up homicide. He’s just back from vacation with his girlfriend and is digging out. And there’s another Morgan, Alex. He works for the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation.” No need to mention he and Alex hadn’t spoken in months or that nothing had been right between them since Melissa.
Nodding, she kept her gaze on the drawing. “A regular family dynasty.”
A fact he took pride in, even when someone like Bishop mumbled complaints about connections and good ol’ boy networks. “That we are.”
“Nice.”
Curiosity jabbed him in the back. “What brought you to Nashville? We’re off the beaten track for folks hailing from the East Coast.”
Her gaze darkened a fraction and he’d have missed it if he hadn’t been watching closely. “I was born here. Lived there a few years before my aunt and I moved east. Tapping into my family roots, I guess.”
“The Morgans know a lot of folks. Your family name is Thompson?”
“It is. Though there’re none of us left in Nashville. Both my parents were only children.” As if suddenly uncomfortable, she retreated back to her chair. “I’ve a good bit of work to do here so if you don’t mind?”
He read her discomfort as if he’d opened the pages of a book. “Tossing me out?”
Her grin was broad and bright. “Throwing you both out.”
The turn in conversation to her family had made her nervous. She tried to cover but failed. So what had happened to her family? “Call me when you have the sketch.”
“Consider it done.”
She tore the paper free from her notepad and handed it to him. “There’s a drawing for you.”
The image was of Tracker, wide-eyed and staring. “This is good.”
“I know my stuff, Detective.”
Careful not to crease the image, he nodded. “Thanks.” He and Tracker made their way to the elevator and as he pushed the button, he glanced back toward the small office. Jenna was again seated, kicked off her shoes, and bent over her sketch, her gaze totally focused on the work as if they
’d never spoken. Curiosity jabbed him in the ribs. She didn’t want to talk about the past. It wasn’t a huge leap to assume it couldn’t have been great if she’d left the area at age five to live with an aunt nearly one thousand miles away.
As he glanced at the sketch, the whys buzzed around Jenna Thompson like flies. Professionally, she was one of the best. She was offering her skills for free. So he figured the rest just wasn’t any of his damn business.
The door dinged open and they stepped inside. As the elevator descended, he reminded himself that poking into someone else’s private business wasn’t so nice or politically correct. Clearly, Jenna wouldn’t want anyone digging too deep.
“Shit.”
Tracker glanced up at him, hearing the anger in his voice. He smiled, telling the canine that everything was fine.
He wasn’t so worried about being nice or PC. He cared about the truth. Whatever was buried in Jenna’s past . . . well, he just might dig it up.
Rick’s first stop after leaving Jenna was the local news station. Frankly, he’d rather eat dirt before he had to cozy up with the media, but sometimes it took a deal with the devil to get the job done.
The department had worked with several reporters on missing children cases and they’d found the local anchor, Susan Martinez, helpful. She could be a pain in the ass when it came to the hard news stories—she did whatever it took to get her story—including hounding his ass after he’d been shot. He still had memories of her camped out in front of his hospital giving her evening news report. Vultures picking off his bones even before the docs could tell him if he would walk properly again.
But like him, when it came to cases involving a child, she played nice. Both knew the gloves would come off in the next round, but for now, it would be all smiles.
He and Tracker moved through the glass doors of the news building and after a brief chat with the receptionist, waited for Susan.
She appeared minutes later with a bright smile. Dressed in a sleek red suit that accentuated ink-black hair, she moved with a grace he had to admire. In her mid fifties, she’d worked the Nashville market for almost thirty years and had broken several major cases.
